


Vehemence

by Tjerra14



Series: The Broken, The Whole [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (and yes it's desk sex), And a pinch of angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I broke a promise for this, No story spoilers, Probably Mostly Smut, Skyhold (Dragon Age), also it was fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23738059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tjerra14/pseuds/Tjerra14
Summary: Inquisitor Imira Trevelyan spends some time with her Commander.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Series: The Broken, The Whole [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1708717
Kudos: 23





	Vehemence

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, when I say I won't write something, all it will take is a couple of years, a recurring joke, and a global pandemic. This is the result.

* * *

This is as good a place to fall as any

We’ll build our altar here

Make me your Maria

I’m already on my knees

Florence+The Machine, _Bedroom Hymns_

**Skyhold, 9:42 Dragon**

The doors to Cullen’s quarters were never locked. Practicability was the main reason: he’d chosen one of the towers that dotted Skyhold’s battlements, approachable from all sides, and with messengers pouring in and out in short order a locked door would be detrimental to their efforts. Which messenger risked their life to deliver vital information while it still mattered, only to get stuck in a queue outside the Commander’s tower?

Preference was another one, one Cullen had been reluctant admitting to when curiosity got the better of her.

“You don’t mind people randomly wandering in here?” Imira had asked, absent-mindedly sketching daisies in the margins of one of his unfinished letters.

“No, not really,” he’d shrugged and reached out to save the paper from her drawings. The frown he’d regarded her with had seemed false.

“Even at night? When you’re asleep?” she’d pressed on.

“Even then. I’d always hear them come up the ladder.” The sudden discomfort on his face had stood in stark contrast to his confident words, however, and she’d understood. A locked door might keep an unwanted visitor out, but it would also keep him in.

So, his quarters had stayed unlocked. Over time, an unwritten rule was established and relayed to unsuspecting recruits via hisses and elbows: one always knocked at Cullen’s doors.

Not that he always noticed.

Imira entered half expecting him not to be there, or asleep at the very least, his head resting on the ever-growing pile of work. Instead, she found him measuring the length of the room with quick angry strides, occasionally delivering a punch at the armour stand in one corner. His breastplate acknowledged each strike with a muffled clank.

“Are you alright?”

At the sound of her voice, he stopped short and turned to her, looking embarrassed.

“Yes,” he said and exhaled. “I’m just trying not to break anything.”

Judging by the books scattered on the floor, he’d not been entirely successful. He had run out of shelf space long ago, and so far the Inquisition had focused more on acquiring knowledge than to properly store it away, so he had started to keep stacks of the newest additions to his personal library next to the shelves. They made for good seats, Imira had found. And apparently for even better kicking practice.

She raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

Cullen gestured in the direction of the scrolls piled up on his desk. “See for yourself.”

She went to have a look, but the densely packed letters on the first she’d picked up soon started to dance on the paper, bending and twisting into nonsense, and she bit back a curse. She didn’t feel like trying to make sense of those words while he watched, waiting on her comment. It didn’t matter that he would be patient since he knew she struggled with reading, and that some types of handwriting made it worse. There was a certain shame attached to someone of her status being borderline illiterate.

_All those lessons in the Circle, and for nothing._

Imira put the scroll back to the others, pretending to have lost interest. Most of his letters were reports anyway, dry recounts that required a map to fully understand them, and the rest… The rest could’ve well been torn from one of those romance novels Cassandra enjoyed so much, presumed their recipient discreetly disposed of them in the fireplace after skimming over the first few sentences.

“So, tell me,” she said, hoisting herself onto the table for the lack of book stacks. “Which one of these is the worst?”

“The one you gave up on reading,” replied Cullen and she felt heat creeping up her cheeks. Of course, he had noticed. “Oh, you didn’t miss anything. One of these blighted marriage proposals. Leliana took great joy in personally delivering the letter to me, because _of course_ she read it, and whoever Lady Milbrandt is, her imagination is terrifyingly vivid.”

Of course, he didn’t mind.

“Did she describe the wedding?”

“She described what she would do to me afterwards. In excruciating detail. Some of it sounded rather painful, quite frankly.” He gave her an unhappy look. “To make things worse, Leliana suggested the Milbrandts could be valuable allies.”

“You should consider the match, then,” chuckled Imira. “It’ll help the Inquisition’s standing. Plus, by the sound of it, Lady Milbrandt is an exciting catch. I’m dull in comparison. I’ll never be able to satisfy your deepest desires. Especially if you require pain. You’d grow bored of me rather quickly.”

“I don’t care,” Cullen blurted out, his reaction unusually quick-tempered. Fists clenched tightly at his side, he took up his pacing again. “I don’t care about standing or Lady Milbrandt or—”

“Cullen,” she interrupted him softly and reached out to catch him by his sleeve as he passed her. “I was teasing.”

He calmed at her touch. “I know,” he sighed. “I’m just… These proposals remind me that this won’t last forever. The Inquisition won’t last forever. Whatever happens, one day it’ll be over, and if, when, there’s an afterwards, I… I don’t know. I find myself wishing it would just not end. That _this_ wouldn’t end. I don’t want to move on.”

Unspoken words lingered in the silence that followed, and she wondered if she’d guessed them correctly. Hoped that she had.

“You don’t have to.”

Cullen snorted. “That’s not how it works, is it?”

“We could make it work.”

“We,” he echoed slowly, his eyes growing wide.

“We,” reaffirmed Imira. Gently putting her arms around his neck, she brought him closer. Her knees gave way to the pressure of his thighs, and for a moment, they settled in that embrace, revelling in each other’s presence. He smelled faintly of elderflower and something she didn’t recognise, something darker, earthier, reminding her of sun-filled hours among her flowers, clothes blackened with soil.

_So, those scented soaps were for you, after all._

“You can’t be serious,” Cullen shook his head after a while, but his objection was quiet, an afterthought, protest for protest’s sake. It was the same disbelief he’d brought to the battlements that day, months ago, when they’d first realised their friendship had grown into something else. _I didn’t think it would be possible_ , and yet, there she’d been.

Here she was, still.

“I am.”

Their lips met halfway, quivering at first, wondering if the other would change their mind, even after all this time. An idle fear. Their hesitation didn’t last, and soon they let go of their restraint, barely allowing each other to breathe. There was an urgency to his caresses moving up her flanks, an urgency that fed an ache deep down she hadn’t felt for years. She pressed her body against his, savouring it, stoking it. Shivers originated from where his warmth seeped through her shirt, thrillingly close to her chest. 

_Maker._

“Imira,” he mumbled sheepishly, and she broke the kiss. He’d tell her off now, Imira was sure, this was too far, too much, too early. The wrong place, the wrong time.

“I sent for a report on the status of our defences earlier, and it should be here soon, so, uh…” Cullen fell silent. Despite his words, he hadn’t loosened his grip around her waist, as unwilling to pull away as she was.

“I suppose we could hurry?” Imira suggested, and relief flashed across his face, chased by a wry smile.

“We could,” he agreed. Suddenly, the smile faltered, and he let go of her, as if he’d just now become aware there was nothing separating them but thin layers of clothing, insufficient to ignore the implications of their intimacy. “If…if you want to, that is.”

_Always asking._

She took his hands and leaned back, and he followed, his gaze mesmerised by hers. They lay down on the tabletop in a shower of papers and scrolls as they tried to make the space they needed, and underneath his weight, yearning for his touch, Imira whispered, “I do. I do.”

The world melted until all that was left were his calloused hands beneath her crumpled shirt, cupping her breasts, his sharp breaths caught by hers, lips searching and finding, drowning. His fingers trailed down her ribs and stomach, yanking at her trousers, and she complied with her hips. The table was hard and cold against her naked back, but he made it comfortable with his devotion, his stubble scratching the inside of her thighs.

“Don’t stop,” as he paused to fumble with his belt.

_Maker, don’t stop._

“I’m sorry,” as it came undone at last, _what took you so long_ , “it was stuck.”

Pleas made and answered, worldly prayers burning on their skin. She got hold of his collar and pulled him up onto her, into her, embraced him, arms and legs and lips, fingers entangled in his hair. Together, they found their rhythm, eager, sensual, _Maker, Cullen_ , moans trapped in the nape of her neck.

 _I love you, I love you_ , clarity between impatient kisses, almost, _almost_ , breathless, gasping, “I—”

Her words, her thoughts dissipated into cries she stifled on his shoulder. Glass clinked, breaking on the floor, a toppled bottle, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered, nothing but him on top of her, inside her, their bodies screaming for release. When it finally came, they collapsed onto the table, panting, sweating. Spent. 

His smile took her breath away. Had it always been so beautiful? Had he been, all flushed cheeks and bright eyes and messy hair stuck to his temples?

 _Maker’s breath, I love you_. 

“Cullen,” she whispered, gingerly taking his face into her palms.

“Imira.” He answered with a kiss, gentle now, calm, and the fondness in his gaze was almost painful.

The rattling of the portcullis, announcing the arrival of a messenger, or returning soldiers, interrupted their rest.

“Your report,” she reminded him.

“Right.”

They got up to fix both clothing and chambers, carefully avoiding the remnants of the bottle, the last witness to their lust. When the knock came, Imira turned to leave. The others would find out soon enough, and she’d rather they would on her own terms, not like this, not while she still tasted him, smelled him on her skin, felt the echo of his love.

Cullen’s question caught her at the door. “Will you stay the night?”

The hope in his voice made her smile.

“Yes,” she said as the door opened from the other side. “Later, I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Philliam, you owe me a bottle of wine.


End file.
